


Cracks in an empty hourglass

by CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball



Series: Submissions to Soullessbrothers [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Bottom Dean, Boyking Sam, Dark, Dark Castiel, Dark Sam, God Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Top Cas, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball/pseuds/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Dean's fault, all of it. They tore the world apart to fight over him. Maybe this is just what he deserves. </p><p>Death lifts his eyebrow the fracture of an inch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soullessbrothers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/gifts).



> Warning: This fic contains graphic rape, and a situation so fucked-up that it is left virtually impossible to be dealt with in any healthy way. Read at your own risk.

If Zachariah could see him now, he’d have the time of his life. It’s one of those random thoughts that pop through Dean’s head while he jogs through the broken streets of a city in a future that is far worse, far more twisted than anything he could have imagined mere three years ago.

It’s not 2014 yet, but the Croatoan virus has come and gone, destroying half of the human civilization. What’s left is fighting for survival and scrambling through the ruins of a war between higher powers.

Dean thinks of Sammy while he ducks into alleys and kicks in rusty doors. Thinks of his little brother, his blood smeared mouth, and the countless demons Dean has tortured, all of them praising the Boyking with their last breaths.

Dean thinks of Cas, of the angel who opposed heaven, promised Dean to help him retrieve his brother, and became a God instead. Dean saw him deep fry two archangels already, and he’s given up hope on the third one manning up some time ago.

It’s the worst kind of fucked up that the two people Dean loves most have torn the world apart, have done exactly the thing he’d give everything to see undone.

He finds the basement Bobby texted him about. After the first few of their hunter contacts died, back when Sam had just taken control over hell, they had warned everyone they could reach and then split up, using what remained of the internet and mobile network to stay in brief contact. The room Dean stops in is warded against everything and everyone, and he still shivers, feels as if every shadow watches him.

Dean undresses and washes the blood of demons and angels from his skin. There are safe zones the human government established, to kindle the remains of civilization, but he knows from various of Bobby’s sources that they are infiltrated with both Demons and Angels.

Both Robert Singer and Dean Winchester are wanted worldwide. There’s a ‘Hunter becomes the Hunted’ joke in there somewhere, but Dean’s too tired to appreciate any kind of irony, even in his own mind.

Lately there has been a truce between Heaven and Hell. Makes it all the more difficult for the underground network of Hunters to stay undetected. They’re far and few between, and they don’t have any other allies.

He checks his naked body in the mirror, to make sure all sigils and tattoos are still complete. It’s everything Bobby’s library could provide, and then some, added by Crowley who paid for the miscalculated insubordination with his life.

It’s been barely enough to keep them off his back.

He falls onto the safe room’s cot, scratchy clean cotton that feels like the fucking Ritz. Ruby’s knife under the pillow, a last glance at the sealed, salted, blessed, warded steel door, and Dean is out.

_It’s the room Zachariah kept him in, just bigger, with more furniture._

_“Hello Dean.”_

_Dean allows himself the smile he never wears awake anymore._

_“Hey Cas.”_

_The former angel, God, thing, friend still looks like the weird, dorky little tax accountant, hair ruffled, eyes bright shining blue. There’s even a bit of scruff on his cheeks and chin, as if it were there because he’d forgotten to mojo it off this morning and not because it makes Dean’s fingers itch with the want to touch him._

_“I have a gift for you.”_

_Cas says, tone neutral, and only because Dean knows him he recognizes the satisfied anticipation underneath._

_Cas gestures towards something behind Dean, and Dean turns and his heart leaps into his throat. There’s his brother, in clean jeans and a plaid shirt, his hair longer, but still the same dimples in his smile._

_“Hey Dean.”_

_“Sammy?”_

_Dean curses his voice for shaking, but there’s no helping it- he hasn’t seen Sam in years. He looks good, broad and healthy, and Dean wants to hug him more than anything._

_“Yeah, it’s me. I missed you.”_

_Sam’s voice is so soft._

_Dean swallows and bites his tongue almost bloody. He never feels any kind of pain here, it’s a part of this room’s allure, but self-infliction still works._

_“How come you’re here?”_

_“Cas and I made peace.”_

_Sam says and chuckles, and Castiel steps next to him, smiles that faint and honest Hamburgers and kittens smile._

_“Why?”_

_“For you.”_

_Cas says with a tilt of his head. As if it was obvious. Because it is obvious._

_“We’re sorry it took us so long, Dean.” Sam says. “It was wrong to try to make you chose, you were right all along.”_

_“Please forgive us for hurting you.” Cas ads honestly._

_Dean chokes on something. He’s not quite certain what it is, but there is definitely something, stealing his breath, constricts his throat, makes his eyes water._

_“You can come home now, Dean.”_

_Sam says, his voice soothing and reassuring, and he makes part of the strain on Dean’s soul go away._

_“There never will be conflict again.” Cas swears solemnly. “And both Sam and I miss you very much.”_

_“When you return, we can be together again.” Sam says with a smile. “The three of us. We never got the chance to live in peace. Come on, Dean, even you can’t say no to that.”_

_“Your parents will be there, too.” Castiel tells him, encouraging. “As will be the Harvelles.”_

_“And Bobby, once we talk some sense into him.” Sam laughs._

_“I need to go.”_

_Dean says. He’s crying, he feels the tears running down his cheeks, but his mind is calm. They can’t read it, and they can’t touch him. His dreams are unpleasant, but not unsafe._

_“Please, De?”_

_Sammy asks, his eyes big and begging, and it tears at every fibre of Dean’s being._

_“I love you both.”_

_Now here’s something he’d never say out loud in real life. It makes them shut up though, long enough for Dean to concentrate, bite his tongue, twist the skin of his arm, and_ wake.

There’s the distinct taste of blood in his mouth. He washes it away with half a bottle of jack deposited under the bed and spends the rest of the night in a half-awake doze, to stare at the concrete ceiling.

A few hours later, he gathers his things, stocks up his supplies. Around his neck is a leather chord. It feels familiar and soothing as long as he doesn’t look down at the little leather pouch that’s attached to it. In the pouch are the pulverized remains of a lightening stroke that made the earth it hit into glass.

Three weeks, or rather twenty hours of sleep later, Dean meets Bobby in a cabin that formerly belonged to Rufus. Like so many others, the Hunter died on one of their errands, but he managed not to give anything away while he was alive.

It does not make much sense to pray for his soul, no matter what direction it went into, but Dean hopes he’ll hold out long enough so the cabin remains safe.

Dean arrives to find Bobby already set up everything. He adds his part of the ingredients, and Bobby insists that they use his blood, because Dean needs to be safe. Dean agrees, because even now arguing when Bobby has made up his mind is about as effective as running his head into a brick wall, but he also knows that he’s rather die than let anyone hurt Bobby. The last person alive he can trust.

“Te nunc invoco, mortem. Te in mea potestate defixi. Nunc et in aeternum!“

“Dean, _what_ are you doing?”

Dean’s blood is ice, and he doesn’t turn. Instead he looks into the calm eyes of an old man.

Death likes pizza, though not enough to leave Chicago standing. Dean learned that when some of Sam’s more enthusiastic followers unleashed the horsemen of the apocalypse to appease his baby brother. He’s given up on any kind of hope long ago, but there is peace in those eyes, even though the Grim Reaper lifts an unamused eyebrow.

“Dean Winchester. I thought you might call me.” He looks behind Dean unimpressed. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“I need you to kill God and the Devil.” Dean says, holds his voice steady, still doesn't turn.

“Dean.”

Death crooks his head.

“I see.”

He ambles around Dean, and Dean turns, keeps his eyes solely on Death.

Suddenly, Bobby makes a gargling noise, and when he whirls around, he’s already gone, leaves only a few drops of blood on the floor.

“We’ve been looking all over for you.”

Sam says, angry, glares at Dean because he was worried about his brother.

“God and the Devil? These two look rather like a mutated angel and demon to me. My respect for the control they exert, though.”

Death remains sardonically unimpressed, and an unbidden wave of relief floods Dean. He can do this. This can end.

“It doesn’t matter. Just kill them.”

“Alright, fine.”

Death raises his hand, Cas snaps his fingers and the laces of energy around Death’s wrists fall apart. Death halts.

“Thank you. Shall we kickbox now?”

Both Cas and Sam look at Dean, pure hurt in their eyes. Adding the pain of forty years of hell into one moment would not be as painful.

“You are free to go.”

Castiel says to Death, his eyes resting on Dean. Suddenly, Dean’s arm burns, and something forces him on his knees, and the handprint shape shines through his shirt, smolders along his nerves.

“It’s okay, Dean. We’re not going to hurt you.” Sam says.

Death steps between them then, lowers himself to meet Dean’s eyes, and touches his forehead with ghostly fingertips.

_Consider this your reward for trying. I had a tingle I’d be reaping someone very, very soon._

There’s too much pain burning through Dean from the handprint to decide whether the cool words are mocking or pitiful. It does not matter either way as a little piece of knowledge is stored in the bottom of Dean’s mind.

Dean screams, and then the world goes black.

When he wakes, he’s naked. He opens his eyes blearily. For the first time in months, nothing hurts. Everything around him is soft, and smells of that special washing powder, Mary Winchester’s favourite brand. The memory seems older than the universe.

Dean’s body is clean, and more than that, there is not a single scar on it, and all traces of ink have been erased. The only exception is the handprint on his arm. He still feels it, tingle ever so lightly, and when he looks down, he notices something else. The amulet hangs around his neck on its old worn leather string. But it’s too light, the weight is too little, the touch not comforting and noticeable, like it’s meant not to burden or constrict Dean. He knows better than to try and take it off.

“Hey. You’re awake.” Sam smiles at him warmly and sits down at the edge of the bed in jeans and a white button down shirt. Dean sits up and pushes himself backwards until his skin hits the cool wooden frame of the bed.

“What did you do to Bobby?”

“Robert is fine.”

Castiel says from the beds other side as he steps into existence, the expression on his face content as he watches Dean pull the sheets to cover himself- Dean knows it’s futile, but he can’t help himself.

“You can see him soon.”

Sam offers, frowning slightly as he watches Dean, no doubt aware of Dean’s racing heartbeat.

“Dean, we told you we’re not gonna hurt you.”

“We have both forgiven you for what you tried to do.”

Castiel adds and steps nearer. Under his gaze, the sheets are suddenly gone, leaving Dean to flinch away from his outstretched hand naked.

“Don’t you fucking touch me.”

“You can’t refuse us.” Sam declares with detached amusement. “Not after everything we have done for you.”

“You destroyed the whole fucking world!” Dean growls. “Do either of you even care how many people you killed?”

“It doesn’t matter, because we did it to make the world a better place, Dean.” Castiel says firmly but patient. “We created a world where you can be at peace.”

“No more hunting. No more death. Just us, and a picket fence, and apple pie. Dean, this is what you deserve.”

Sam moves and touches him even though the muscles of Dean’s shoulder coil tight under his palm. Dean presses his forehead against his knees to suppress the shaking. He knows this is all his fault, has always known it, because everything he touches turns to shit, everything he loves goes up in flames. Always has, always will.

“No, Dean. This is not your responsibility. You have been misguided lately, but your intentions were righteous.”

Castiel’s hand is on his neck and then on his jaw, and with tender force moves his head.

“Dean, look at me.”

Why does neither of them look any different? How can he still see traces of the little boy in Sam’s face, how is Cas still so perfect?

Castiel kisses him, tender and careful and loving, and Dean’s body goes limp against his will.

“It’s okay Dean. You can have this, just let go.”

Sam mouths the words into the skin of his neck, his tongue licks under the amulet’s cord.

“Please don’t.”

Dean whispers when Cas pulls back to let him breathe.

“I can’t do this like this.”

“Will you really deny us this, Dean?” Castiel asks earnestly, as he trails his hands down Dean’s side.

“You have waited as long as we did. Do you think you’re able to?”

Dean opens his mouth, but Sam catches the answer in his, kisses him deeply, rougher and more possessive than Cas had been. Dean wants to fight back, struggles against their grip, but they’re not only Sam and Cas anymore.

He might’ve stood a chance against Sam and Cas. He strugges against the hold of two beings that count among the strongest in existence, and after all the shit he went through, he is still only human.

“We will not cause you any harm.”

Cas says again, his hand wandering downwards and palming Dean’s limp cock.

“Stop fighting.”

Sam whispers the words against Dean’s cheek in between soft kisses. They share a glance and then they don’t manhandle Dean- that would imply the possibility of resistance- they move him, flat on his back. Sam shoves two of his long fingers into Dean’s mouth, so deep Dean chokes.

He chuckles when Dean bites him bloody.

“Careful now. Don’t you think one addict in the family’s enough?”

Sam mocks him as he sucks Dean’s nipple, but he doesn’t pull back his bleeding fingers, and Dean’s mouth is filled with the taste of iron and sulphur.

Cas uses the distraction to spread Dean’s legs- his muscles still don’t quite obey him which means he can’t put up much of a fight when Cas curiously explores him. They’d never gotten to that stage, never had gone beyond kissing even back when Cas was still determined to help Dean get Sammy back.

Cas’ fingers touch Dean’s hole ever so lightly, probe gently with little teasing nudges, and with a short frown from Cas, they’re suddenly covered in something cold.

Sam still holds down Dean’s tongue, but even so, his protests are audible.

“Shh, I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Sam bites his nipple, bruising sharp and hard while Cas’ fingers penetrate him, two at once to stretch the burn into Dean.

“You even told me you wanted this once, remember?”

Once, drunk, four years younger, innocent. The last night he’d had with his Sammy.

“You still have me.” Sam’s voice is sharp now. “Quit lying to yourself, Dean. This is me. I’m still yours. Cas is still yours. And you’re ours.”

Cas crooks his fingers, Sam twists his nipples without a trace of mercy, and Dean cries out sharply.

They turn him around again, and Dean can’t control his voice anymore, but he begs anyway:

“Please, don’t, Cas, Sammy, no…”

“You will give in to us.”

Cas says into his ear, linies up against him, and Sam kisses Dean, to suck the scream from his lungs as Cas snaps his hips forward.

“You feel so good, Dean.”

Cas’ voice goes through his whole body, vibrating on the wave of pain.

“You are worthy of our love. Never doubt that you are worthy.”

Sam lets go of Dean’s lips, kisses his nose, forehead, cheeks, jaw, tenderly to soothe the broken whimpers Dean can’t hold back.

“He’s tight, isn’t he?”

“Very.”

Cas agrees and rocks his hips carefully. Their arms entrap Dean more secure than any cage could as they twist around together, so Cas is on top, Dean caged between them and Sam supporting his weight, his hot erection lined up against Dean’s soft cock.

He takes them both into his hand, moves in sync with Cas’ thrusts, and something prickles where the skin of his hand touches Dean, makes his body react despite the dominant panic, desperation and pain.

“No, no, please, Sammy…”

The tears run along the bridge of Dean’s nose now, fall onto the white mattress where he’s facing it. Whatever the material is, it absorbs the drops without a trace.

“Do you wish me to stop your tears, Dean?”

Cas offers sincerely, and Dean can’t even catch his breath properly.

Sam continues to stroke them both, and he knows every secret move, every tug and twists that makes Dean fall right apart.

“Let him. He needs this.”

Sam replies for his brother and bites Dean’s earlobe tenderly.

Cas groans softly, the sound deceptively human when he speeds up his thrusts. The raw friction inside of Dean leaves pain far behind, shooting straight into the infinity of unbearable.

Sam’s breath gets ragged in that familiar way, that way Dean used to love more than anything, and Cas kisses the nape of Dean’s neck, sucks on the skin there tenderly.

“Come for us.”

Sam orders, and Dean does, breaks first, falls apart into a million pieces.

Cas and Sam follow him immediately, into and all over him, and they don’t let go of him, Dean like a ragdoll in their arms.

Only when his breathing becomes abnormally slow, they roll to the side.

Dean stares against at his brother’s neck with empty eyes while their hands wander over him in slow, soothing strokes. He remembers what Death gave him- the chance to die at will. He could die right now and they would not have a chance to touch his soul or bring him back. He could. It doesn’t matter.

There is nothing death could save him from now.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sunny sky, little fluffy herds of clouds, warm earth, red-dusty well-tempered with green. It is Lawrence, Kansas.

The cracks in the asphalt of their road, that weird old lady with the crazy dog, the ever-grumpy shopkeeper in town, the greasy diner food still the same, the one streetlight that never worked, fumes of the farmers’ jeeps and tractors still stinking with ever faint traces of sulphur.

Flawless little imperfections tugging on his childhood while he walks down the road, and it’s a bit warm to bury his hands in the leather jacket, but he can’t help it.

“Honey!”

He turns to Mary. She works the flower beds in her lawn, silver hidden in blonde, bound back under a straw hat, smudge of earth on her cheeks. She smiles gently at him.

“What a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, smiles back at her. Lawrence never had that kind of ideal weather year-round when he was a younger, at least not that he can remember. The town is lucky.

“You’re all still coming to the barbeque tomorrow, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Tell Cas we’re having his favourite burgers, and tell your brother to leave the paperwork at home, you hear me?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Can’t help the teasing, and she smacks him affectionately.

“Did your father say when he’d get home?”

“No. He and Bobby are still fawning over the Mustang that came in the other day.”

Mary sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Suppose I’ll have to call Karen to pry them away.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too high. S’a beautiful car.”

“But you’re on your way home.”

She points out with a knowing smile.

He shrugs and winks at her, because that always makes her happy for some reason.

“Can’t miss dinner.”

“See you tomorrow, Sweetie.”

He refrains from rolling his eyes about the nickname and continues his way home.

He walks past the Harvelles' house which is empty, both Ellen and Bill most certainly still at the Roadhouse, Bill to man the kitchen, Ellen to tend the Bar. Passing him on kiddie bikes, screeching and laughing loudly, Jo’s and Garth’s two kids rush by, call out to him.

He waves and watches them throw their bikes on the lawn, run up to their house across the street. Jo’s probably baking, and she’s gonna scold them for not putting the bikes into the shed.

Like clockwork.

He walks on.

The house is beautiful. Walls an unpretentious shade of cream-white he didn’t know was possible to exist, big windows, big patio, door unlocked. He steps inside, takes off his boots and jacket.

“You’re home.”

He shrugs and nods at Cas, who stands in the hallway, waiting for him, and his smile is so warm, sparkles in his eyes. Looks good, in jeans and a dress shirt, arms rolled up cause it’s summer.

“How was your day?”

“The new car we got in’s really nice to work with.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it tomorrow, then.” Cas says.

He nods, because he’s very lucky to have people that care enough about him to make sure he doesn’t overwork himself, no matter how much he loves his job.

“Should I make dinner?”

“You know that it’s Sam’s turn.”

Cas says and glances at the doorway. As if on cue there’s a loud clank, metal on metal, and a mumbled curse.

Cas crooks his head slightly, looks at him.

He hesitates, just, only just a second, before he goes to investigate the source of the noise.

Cas follows behind him.

“A little help?”

Sam looks at him, half annoyed, half sheepish, a steaming pan full of vegetables in one hand, a useless plastic spatula and potholder in the other, while behind him a stainless steel colander stands on the induction cooker, next to a big pot of pasta that is currently overboiling, blots of water that jump and hiss as they hit the black surface.

He takes the colander, puts it in the sink, turns on the cold water.

“They’re al dente.”

Sam supplies, so he takes the pot and drains the spaghetti.

“Dean.”

Cas sighs when he puts the pot down next to the sink. His hands are taken- it’s only a faint, first degree burn on his palm. It does not take long to heal.

“Can we eat now?”

“Sure, in a minute. Just let me finish the sauce.”

Sam says good-naturedly.

“We’ll help you set the table.”

Cas declares. They do, and then the three of them sit down to eat. No prayer before, because it’s not a Winchester family tradition to thank higher powers for anything.

At any given point of time, Dean Winchester is only a hairs breadth away from Death.

Right now, more than ever.

“You’re being quiet.”

Sam observes while they eat. Dean shrugs.

“Busy day.”

“A lot on your mind?”

Sam asks sympathetically.

_Not as much as on yours for sure._

“Hm-mm.”

“Dean, are you feeling alright?”

Cas asks him sombrely.

“Peachy, Cas. Please don’t worry about me.”

“Can’t help it. You haven’t been yourself for a while now.” Sam says.

Dean looks at him, at a loss of what to answer.

_This is my gift to you. I had a tingle I’d be reaping someone very, very soon._

“Do you wish to go on a hunt?” Cas asks.

That’s a deal-breaker, game-changer, and

_F_ _uck this, it’s so on._

“What would be the point?”

Dean asks back sharply.

“Maybe it would help you feel like yourself again.” Sam answers, his face the epitome of compassion. “Look, Dean, I know this change is hard on you, but-”

“You raped me.”

There, he’s said it.

This shouldn’t be his main concern. The billions of people they killed, the world they destroyed, while fighting over him no less, making it his fault in the first place. The friends they hunted, murdered.

That should be his main concern, but Dean’s a selfish asshole, and he is unable to get over the betrayal, that gaping hole where all the trust he had left used to be.

Neither Cas nor Sam say anything, so Dean speaks:

“You did that, and then threw me into this fucked up Wannabe-Truman-Stepford and wonder why I don’t play along.”

He’s calm, icy, secure in the knowledge that no torture of any kind could be worse. He lost, Free Will lost, and Dean has nothing left to lose.

“You didn’t think that it would be impossible to alter my mind.”

“Impossible without your permission.”

Sam points out, and Dean stares at him coldly.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“We would not have altered your mind.” Castiel disagrees. “To do so would be eradicating you from existence, replacing you. We don’t want you compliant, we want you happy, Dean.”

_Thank Death you don’t have a way to make me._

He doesn’t say it, but from both their pained expression he thinks it’s quite obvious anyways.

“You know what’s comforting, _Cas_? With all the omnipotence you still can’t change that you’re a crap liar.”

Sam breathes in, wants to say something, Dean knows his habits and quirks better than himself and cuts him off:

“Don’t bother telling me you wouldn’t mess with my head if you could.”

“We would temper your memory, if it were in our power.”

Castiel says and looks seriously uncomfortable at admitting that there is something even he can’t do.

“Make it easier to remember.”

“I said no. I asked you not to.” Dean growls. “You did it anyway. There’s nothing that can make this right, no matter how long you make me play this charade.”

_What am I doing?_

For the first time in weeks, the question hits him, it’s become a periodic thing since they dropped him into this happy little terrarium. He jumps up, unable to look at them, runs out of the house, three paces down the street.

Baby waits for him in the shade of a tree, beacon of false sanity that she is. Dean refuses to park her in the garage of their house, and Sam and Cas let him, until now. She even smells the same, comforting leather and oil, runs smooth as ever. No music, just wheels on asphalt, Dean drives out of the city, until there’s no house in sight.

The sun is sinks near the horizon and there’s wheat and grass and insects everywhere. Cas’ touch, probably, marvel at the beauty of creation ant, be grateful your shitty little life plays in front of a lifetime movie backdrop. It’s how Dean always knows this is fake, despite the occasional dirt and occasional rain and occasional impolite people. Too _tempered_ , softened, all of it made to appease him instead of existing on its own. It’s not even funny.

Dean gets out of the car and sits down on the hood, and wishes he had brought a beer.

_What am I doing?_

Sam and Cas won’t change. They already changed. It’s idiotic, he already knew he couldn’t trust them, he knew it was over when they caught him, but back then he still hadn’t thought they would

_What am I doing?_

There is literally no hope for the world. Zero, nada, null, rien, none. At. All. What’s left of the goodness that was in Sammy, that made Cas’ very essence, what’s left of that, it gets poured into this bloody farce, and Dean never knows what they are going to do next.

_What am I doing?_

They’re not his little brother and his angel anymore, and did Dean really take this fucking long to come accept that completely? Apparently.

_Here’s to patience. Never was the brightest tool in the shed…_

“Finally making a decision, my boy?”

Dean turns and looks at Death, who sits beside him on the Impala’s hood. No clue how long he’s been doing that, and maybe that’s the wrong question to ask. Dean gets the sudden, ridiculous urge to warn the haggard man with the forgiving eyes that his pristine black suit is gonna get dirty, it’s been days since he washed Baby and Kansas summer is dusty.

Death looks nice, unchanged, unspoiled by the surrounding- _appeasingness_. He doesn’t want anything from Dean, and Dean owes him nothing in return.

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.” Dean admits and buries his face in his hands.

“You can live, or you can die. At will.” Death tells him unhelpfully.

“I’m pretty inclined towards the second option. No take backs, right?”

“No take backs.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“That depends.”

Dean stares at Death, who looks at the sunset contemplatively, like a renowned art critic might look at the surprisingly sophisticated drawing of a preschooler.

“Are you gonna elaborate that?”

“When you die, you’re dead.”

“Um.”

Punching Death for wiseassery is probably not a smart thing to do. Neither is cussing, most likely. Thank God, no don’t, Death does elaborate further:

“I believe there are people who would mourn you.”

“Sam and Cas can just make’em all forget. Or leave them once they got no use, they’re fake anyways.”

Dean says, voice hard because the truth was long compressed.

“Oh, I assure you the souls of the people in this town are those you hold dear. Every single one. Quite authentic.” Death informs him. “But I don’t think they’re your main concern.”

“They’re not- it’s not them. They’re not my Sam and Cas, not the ones that matter.”

“They’re what they’ve become.” Death nods. “How much they matter to you is one thing, how much they matter to everyone else an entirely different question.”

Oh. Right. Basically, Dean’s the pet of God and the Devil, almost forgot that.

“You mean if I die they get mad?”

“I _mean_ -”

Death looks at him, meets his eyes, stern abyss gaze,

“-you are the reason they care about this world.”

“No pressure.” Dean mumbles.

“Do not misunderstand me, Dean. You did your part and more, you deserve to die, in the best possible meaning of that phrase. But you asked me to elaborate.”

Death leans back, to regard the sunset again, and Dean’s hands itch for a bottle of beer, really, just so he’s got something to hold on to.

“Dean!”

 _Right. Figures._ Sam and Cas wouldn’t let the only entity stronger than them near him unsupervised.

“What are you doing here?”

Cas growls at Death.

“Dean called me, little angel.”

Death says mildly.

“Dean?”

Sam’s eyes are- Sam’s eyes are wide, and will you look at that. Panic. _Nice try, Demonking._

“Take as much time as you need.”

Death says, with an ever so faint ring of amusement in his voice. He holds a bag of pickle chips in his hand.

“Dean, you can’t be thinking this!” Sam says.

He should make a pro and con list. That’s important for big decisions, right? Pro-Death: No more disappointment. No more sad for times that can’t be brought back. No more living on the edge of a whim. Just no more.

“Dean, talk to us.” Cas says.

Pro-Staying here in this warped shithole of candyfloss reality:

“You can ask anything, anything at all from us if you don’t do this.” Sam says.

Dean racks his brain, he really does. Thing is, all the people not dead, he already mourned them. Pecan pie and picket fences don’t mean jack for hunters when they aren’t earned.

“We only need one more chance to make this right, Dean!” Cas says.

Well, maybe there’s a Contra-Death though: Cas and Sam might go more batshit insane than they already were prior to all of this and tear up the earth.

_Do I care?_

“Dean, _please_!”

_Aw shit._

It’s not in him to ignore that voice, not like this, not even now, not ever. He looks at Sam, and huh, mad props for acting, his little brother’s eyes are shining liquid.

“Demons don’t cry, Sam.”

He points out tiredly. Death sends him a knowing glance.

“We need you.”

Cas says, steps closer urgently. Dean has no reason to retreat, so he doesn’t. He can die at will. Does he want to?

_Kinda. I just can’t._

“Dean, I’m sorry. We both are. We- what we did-”

Sam is shaking now. An apology?

“That’s a new one.”

Dean states dryly.

“You are right. What we did was wrong.” Castiel says. “We were selfish and we deserve your wrath, but _please_.”

_What the fuck is going on_

“Let us earn your forgiveness. Please. I’m begging you.”

Sam sinks to his knees, and Dean’s had enough.

“Stop.”

“We need you, Dean, more tha-”

“I said stop!”

Cas shuts up, that’s reassuring. They don’t stop looking at him, though. Through all the domestic bliss, and finding them disgruntled baking pancakes in the mornings. and joking at Jo’s wedding, and Bobby teasing Cas, and Mom ruffling Sammy’s hair, this, their expressions while they look at him next to Death on the Impala’s hood, are the single most human looks Dean has seen on them in years.

“I’m not gonna die and leave you to burn what’s left of this world to ashes as my funeral pyre.”

Dean says. Tired, he’s so tired.

“You won’t regret it.”

Sam promises, and Dean shrugs.

“Sure.”

“No. Please.”

Should God be able to feel desperation? Cas looks pretty close to it, and Dean has the vague feeling that it isn’t an act.

“Not again. Please don’t withdraw from us again.”

“What’cha want me to do then, Cas? I don’t trust you.”

“Give us a chance to earn your forgiveness.”

Sam’s voice is low and pleading, he all but whispers.

“I want you back, all of you. I want to touch you without causing you nightmares.”

Ah, well, can’t expect to sleep in the house of God and the Devil without having them notice stuff like that, even if they gave him his own room.

“The pain you are in. Please allow us to heal it.” Cas says.

“If you are messing with me, I-”

“I swear we’re not. We’ll never take away your choice again, Dean.”

Sam is quick to cut him off, eyes burning.

“Swear on what?”

Dean demands.

“On your life.”

Cas answers.

Oh well then.

 _Farewell. Until we meet again, Dean Winchester._ Something warm brushes through his hair, not-quite-wind, and then he’s the only one who sits on the Impala.

“They’re all real, aren’t they?”

Dean doesn’t meet either of their eyes when he slides off Baby’s hood.

“Yes. We only changed their memories of how they got here.” Sam says.

“They know who you are?”

“Those who were alive, some.”

Castiel amends and Dean sends him a sharp glance.

“Did you torture Bobby?”

“No. We erased the memories of the ritual and brought him here.”

Sam bites his lip, because there is no way to prove that to Dean.

Dean still knows it’s true, though.

“I’m gonna drive back now.”

He doesn’t say home, it’s honesty hour. To ask if they need a lift would be similarly ridiculous, even given the circumstances.

“Wanna come along?”

He’s missed that too, Cas’ wide-eyed look of surprise.

“Shotgun.”

Sam says, smiles. Not perfect, won’t be for a long while, but there’s a possibility.

The sun sinks, the road is dry and keeps the day’s heat. Baby purrs.

There’s a choice, and it’s all that Dean can ask for.

 


End file.
